Knotted, Twisted
by illeden9872
Summary: “Remember me. I’m right here.” And it always ends with him waking up and trying to forget. And wondering why he wants to. Slash Drabble


Discliamer: Not Mine!

Don't like slash then don't read.

Read and Review because my ego needs boosting

Drabble : Knotted, Twisted

A quick glance over his shoulder proves his suspicions correct, and the brief triumph only lasts a second before the unease creeps like a moth over his heart fluttering its wings and making him pleasantly-and not so pleasantly- tense. He wants to know why the door refuses to cease this silly game with him just as much as he doesn't want to stand and look behind the door to see a face there.

Harry isn't sure who it is that keeps opening his door-a perfect 21 degree angle every day for two weeks at 3:00- but one thing he knows for sure is that it's not a simple gust of wind-because the air is stagnant like a grave- or the tilt of floorboards-purebloods do not have tilts to their floors-. Even if his room here a Grimald Place is awkward, dark, and terribly stuffy he knows that someone is there and that it is not just the fact that this place is creepy beyond all reason.

The soft whooshes of air against the grey wood that sooths and irritates him to no end followed by the whisper of someone's -_something's_- existence. To put a face to the cause of his constant wakefulness would please him terribly, maybe even a name to go with that face.

Harry hadn't known he could obsess over anything that didn't have to do with Voldemort but he had been wrong because every time that 'presence' entered his room-no matter ho many silent steps were taken inside of it- it filled him with a clash of emotions and bled over senses like he should have heard-seen-_smelled_-something…anything. And mysteries had never been Harry's passion but his hand would twitch and he could almost feel his breath stop in his throat, stinging his eyes with tears that had no relation to his lake of oxygen or the stale taste of the air in this house.

He knew this feeling, the name on the tip of his tongue and the face grinning at him from the corner of his eye. Smell was a bit more difficult, it smelled like hope and misery mixed with plenty of Harry's questionable sanity. Taste…

You can't blame him for wanting to know the taste. For gods sake he _is_ still a teenager.

Yet just as his mind flickers over the memory of laughs, smothering hugs, confusion, and a swift feeling of agony-not unwelcome but deserved- the name escapes his grasp, cackling at him as it slips away from chilled fingers and out the still open door.

He sometime wonders why he is kept in this horrid place. But he never thinks on it for long, mind already skipping to the next task. Dumbledore believes the mind healer he had assigned to me will help with nightmares but he always feels so invading and the curl of his lips, the crinkles around his eyes seem so false.

But when he shouts and asks for him to stop, to just _get out_, he is scolded for being rude. But he refuses to feel chastised by twinkling blue eyes when he feels so ugly and empty, because it feels like Cole -the Healer- is _taking_ something and not _fixing_, taking something terribly wonderful from him.

That something, shaded, shifting, roiled like clouds or thunder, dancing hot and cold against his skin and sneaking into his mouth when he breathes. That swirled coil of being was impossible to keep in focus for his glasses had escaped him again. The familiar smile, dazzling and discomforting making his stomach bunch up, it was dizzying to look at. But when he spoke of the figure he saw in front and all around him they pressed in harder and took more and that scared him.

And while he longed for this absolution from the strange want that should be wrong but never is. He couldn't just let them take it. Because it was his. Not theirs. And he would deal with it, get rid of it, or at least that's what he told his Healer and Dumbledore. I would only get his strained smile and disappointed blue gaze and for some reason I would bury the memory further from them instead of trust the man who I once called my Grandfather.

Why did they want the memory so badly, who was in it? Why did they continue to lie to him, why not come clean and just say they were after a memory. Fix his head? Yeah right. Fucking pricks.

The moment Harry's foot hits the squeaky floorboard two feet in front of the ajar door, he feels the chill of hands on his body, resting on his shoulders and when he looks up all he sees is the hallway. Standing and contemplating Harry touches his shoulder and hisses out a breath when he realizes it is hot to touch.

With a longing sigh he closes the door and gets the same awful feeling of vertigo as his heart tries to rip itself to shreds. The murmur of a memory gives him a sense of déjà vu like he had done this a millions times before.

Sometimes late into hours of darkness he can feel the presence wrap around him stroking his face and kissing his cheek, but that is only sometimes…other times its grasping hair, embarrassed gasps and biting skin a little too roughly. But it always ends the same way; a breathy whisper against his ear shaking him with its sadness, longing, and trying to choke him because all Harry can feel for the voice is trust. "Remember me. I'm right here."

And it always ends with him waking up and trying to forget. And wonder why he wants to.

"Sirius." Hands fist into sheets and he try's not to get the bed too wet.

Does his twisted brain and manipulative heart know no bounds? They've taken the man that was Harry's only hope of family and knotted him into his hideous fantasy of love, comfort and a pleasure that can crush his heart and redden his skin.

And most days Harry really does forget but _most _days Harry wonders if it is he that is opening the door and trying to remember but is ashamed to.

Then at 1 o-clock precisely he is to meet his Healer and hopefully at 3:00 he can get over himself and just open the bloody door the rest of the way and remember. Maybe he should write a note as a reminder because he always seems to forget.

Only two minutes after Harry left to meet with his Healer a pair of aged hands seek out the small piece of parchment that represents Harry's sweet innocent hope. He unfolds it as he does every time and reads the familiar scrawled handwriting of his most _prized_ pupil. The twinkle in his eyes dies as he crushes the paper in his hands.

'_I know where you've put him, you old twit! See you in Hell.'-Prongslet_


End file.
